


Legendary (Blink And You'll Miss It)

by theunderstudyinlove



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Waterparks (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-08-22 16:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8292925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunderstudyinlove/pseuds/theunderstudyinlove
Summary: "You're the type of kid who smokes a cigar after being diagnosed with bronchogenic carcinomas--lung cancer, for your simple mind," Patrick declared."You're the person who would yell, 'Fuck you,' while the world is at its expiration date. Peter Kingston, you are a hurricane of a man, but all in all a man. You are a somebody. I admire your significance."Patrick paused, as if it were mid-sentence. His lips were parted thoughtfully, squinting at the boy with crystalline blues as he finally pulled his mouth into a tight smile.A giggle emerged from his teeth, seethed between admiration and perplexity."Peter Wentz, you indeed are a character of oddities. I apologize for my bluntness--but it is fact," He finished, eyes crinkled at the corners, a kind of feature that made Pete's heart jump.There was a long silence--as if it was his turn in filling the blank of the conversation, but nothing came to mind.Yet, there were a few instances where he had something at the tip of his tongue, a single utter of reply that could possibly advance his relationship with this stranger. But he let it end off, as Patrick Stump flashed a polite, curt grin, dematerializing at that.





	1. Gemini, Won't You Meet Me Eye To Eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chaotically](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaotically/gifts).



> This is my first fanfic on AO3, so I hope you enjoy it! This is a kind of gang alternate universe, half-inspired by The Outsiders. 

Killing people was never the fun part, to Patrick.

He had always believed that leaving with broken bones, slathered features, and a nice memory of his bloodstained porcelain mask was the victory.

To leave a fighter to die was nothing but a stamp of failure to him--and no, it _wasn’t_ because of the guilt that came along with murder. It was the too easy path for his wins. It wasn’t any fun if he had no trophies walking out of the arena, reminding everyone that Mr. Benzedrine had won once again.

The rules to the fights were simple.

No guns.

No knives.

No mercy.

Patrick tapped the water on; it’s cool, runny properties draining into the sink as he washed his hands off. Most of the blood had dried from the night, but the man didn’t particularly care. All he’d need was some gloves--which he wore almost all the time anyway—and a stop at Dallon’s. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too busy.

The man gazed at the mirror slowly, tracing his injuries as flecks of red stained the glass hesitantly. There had already been multiple assaults of dirt and gore on the reflection, from historical times of Patrick’s post-fight rituals.

He had already been told the balance for the night.

_“Six-hundred, Mister B,”_ Brendon had smiled, flicking through the wad of cash as a cigar seethed between his teeth.

_“You did well. Now, get your ass into the bathroom and clean yourself off. We’re going home.”_

Patrick had only nodded, keeping his words discreet below the chants of the rowdy crowd.

Mr. Benzedrine’s secrecy was a vital part of the Youngblood’s cash income. By now, the gang was filthy rich--for a rundown city like Chicago. They no longer had to share the infamously corrupted streets together, banding in a posse of dangerous and hungry teenagers as they traveled like prehistoric nomads. They had a home—and unlike other groups in Illinois’ suburbs, it was well on the fancier side of things.

“You ready, Trick?” Brendon inquired, brows slouching downward as he leaned against the doorway.

Patrick nodded, pausing to frown in confusion before carrying on.

“Ready for what? I’m only retiring back to my abode after this,” Patrick breathed, brushing past the taller man as he reached for his jacket.

It was an old thing—a one size too large, blood smeared cloth that Patrick could easily repair, though he didn’t really care to. He had all the money, though he believed it held fragile mementos that could be easily tainted if he modified it in any way. On the rear of the leather, the word, _Youngblood_ was etched into its skin. The depiction of a rose riddled skull rested below the banner.

Patrick then slipped on his signature fingerless gloves, masking his blood laced fingerprints as he eyed Brendon, running a hand through his damp, sweat-enticed hair.

“We’re celebrating tonight, Trick. You should lighten up for today. Six-hundred is an underrated number in the world of street fighting,” Brendon urged, patting the millennial on the back as he offered the boy a cigar.

Patrick only shook his head at the offer, though his fingers slowly found the tip of the stick as he stuck it between his lips. Brendon then proceeded to light the joint, a ribbon of smoke slicing through the starry night sky as the duo walked outside the building.

Patrick didn’t respond for a long period of time; instead, tipping the ashes of the tobacco onto the sidewalk as he gazed at the stars.

Brendon was Patrick’s best friend and manager. He oversaw the fights, kept track of the money, and scheduled duels for the fighter. He knew his companion’s quirky little habits, such as forgetting the subject of the conversation, drifting into a random train of thought, and speaking with incredulous vocabulary. He knew that his friend also enjoyed putting on a show, hence the dawn of Mr. Benzedrine’s existence.

The Youngbloods had always been known for their kick-ass reputation, but the masked enigma of Mr. Benzedrine just enhanced the gang scene. It inspired bravery, money, and stupidity to ones desperate for wealth. Patrick—or, Mr. Benzedrine, as no one but Brendon knew—was an undefeated legend. His net worth placed the top five in the universe of gangs, with over $750,000 in bet money.

“You see that constellation, Urie?” Patrick pointed, drawing out an alien shape as Brendon watched.

“Gemini?”

“Gemini,” Patrick confirmed.

They both stopped in their tracks, as the two admired its stars.

“Gemini’s are believed to be two-faced, as according to Greek mythology,” Patrick started.

“The Gemini’s were twins, Castor and Pollux. Pollux was granted immortality, whereas Castor proceeded as a mortal. They both were known for their heroism, and when Castor died, Pollux shared his immortality with his brother. This tale—yet a myth—inspired something in me I’d like to share,” Patrick turned to Brendon, as if waiting for permission to continue.

“Knock yourself out,” Brendon consented, walking forward as Patrick followed quickly.

“Well, to articulate my theory is almost imposturous to even _attempt_ , as the philosophy is in fact difficult to verbalize in a way that would suffice me; but here’s what I think. I’m afraid—no, _daunted_ —of the fact that this immortality that Mr. Benzedrine portrays may consume my own, personal identity. Patrick Stump—you see—represents Castor, the mortal of the egos. Mr. Benzedrine—a mere _illusion_ and _god-like_ version of myself—seems to fall in line with the persona of Pollux. Do you see what I mean?” Patrick inquired, as Brendon shot him a look of, _of-course-I-was-listening_ in response.

Patrick smiled widely at this, proceeding.

“Now, excuse the use of third-person in my explanation, though I find it quite easier to maneuver with when talking. Well, though the twins were known for their good deeds, I’d question whether my own morals are straight—“

“They’re still straighter than you,” Brendon interrupted, winking.

Patrick only frowned comically, pouting his lips as he stated, “Brendon, you must know I find no one of interest. I’m borderline sociopathic--it’s sad, truly,” Patrick rolled his eyes upward, as if looking for the trail of the previous subject.

“Ah, yes—Geminis. They were known for their acts of heroism, as I’ve mentioned, though my personal intentions say otherwise. Blood money is not the _best_ money, per se. So I believe that if Mr. Benzedrine were to perform much longer, the situation could evolve into a more… _dangerous_ subject. Playing such a character has already leaked its consequences into my daily life—I could hurt someone I wasn’t paid to hurt,” Patrick concluded, the familiar view of the Youngblood Headquarters falling into his vision.

Brendon nodded in understanding, pursing his lips in thought.

“If you’re so scared of hurting someone, stop acting like that. Keep the mask, trash the personality. It’s simple,” Brendon offered, dropping the cigar on the ground as he squished it. Patrick did the same, letting the conversation hang loose in the air as he did so.

_I suppose you’re right,_ Patrick wanted to say, though his audacity for the phrase had cut short, as the two approached the door, Brendon fiddling with his keys.

Patrick questioned his lack of response, though. He highly doubted that something as minor as the chiming of keys could cut him off. Perhaps that claim was wrong—false.

He wondered fleetingly about the subject, though he most definitely knew why he couldn’t answer.

Letting go of Mr. Benzedrine would be too callous, for a man like Patrick.

A man like Patrick adored the theatrical side of this ego. A man like Patrick would cling onto these traits endearingly, stubborn to part with its existence.

A man like Patrick—once a bland, one-dimensioned soul—could not bear the idea of letting such a side go. Mr. Benzedrine was the definition of Patrick’s significance. If he wasn’t him, he was nobody.

Patrick did _not_ want to be a nobody.

“You have one hour to debate whether or not you want to celebrate, Stump. We’re heading to the bar at 2 AM,” Brendon declared as a farewell, disturbing his thoughts.

Patrick snapped out of his trance as he stepped inside, frowning.

_Maybe a drink would help,_ he thought.

Alcohol solved anything and everything in Patrick’s mind.

He still hadn’t been able to conclude if the obsessive side of him was Castor or Pollux.

Perhaps it was both.

 


	2. What's My Age Again?

They had told him he was twenty-one.   
  
Pete thought back to the few moments before this resolution—to when he woke up to blinding white lights.   
  
It was the steady beep of the IV machine that he had rose to. It was incredibly distinct for its loud, annoying ring—but other than that, the sound of eerie silence was the only thing Pete could pick out.   
  
The windows seemed to filter a dark entity of shadows, and through its slits Pete could see the starry night greet him. A certain smell of anti-septic and dry sterility filled the air, and Pete could taste salt bidding at the back of his chapped lips.   
  
Piercing his arm, a tube looped through his skin, the medication halting in the IV. It was hard to breathe, the cool air assaulting his throat threateningly as he spewed into a burst of coughs.   
  
He cleared his throat, aching for water and silence just as a nurse approached him.   
  
She stared at him wide-eyed before proceeding to tap the IV machine, the cacophony seeping into a small string of censorship.   
  
He groaned, head throbbing as spots of color filled his vision. He was barely conscious, struggling to comprehend presently.    
  
The nurse tended to him, wrapping a blue band around his skinny bicep, proceeding to latch something onto his pointer finger with a clasp of the sort.   
  
"Don't move," she ordered, accompanied by a stethoscope. She worked on him wordlessly, brows furrowed in concern.   
  
"Do you remember anything, Peter?" The nurse inquired, hands moving in a sort of rhythmic motion, precise and practiced.   
  
She was pretty, Pete noticed. With her dark hair, those hazel-induced eyes. Freckles dotted her tan skin, lashes framing her irises in long, lush strands.   
  
The boy didn't answer for a long time. He only gazed at her, a flirtatious remark on his lips, caught in his throat.   
  
"Sir, can you remember anything?" She repeated, more firmly.   
  
Pete blinked, pursing his lips as he processed the words.   
  
"Not really," he muttered, surprised at the clarity of his voice.   
  
It came deeper than expected, more matured than he had taken himself for. He forced a cough, humming.   
  
"That was expected," she replied, frowning as she unhooked the boy from the blue cuff.   
  
_ Stop frowning so much _ , Pete wanted to say.  _ You're probably even more gorgeous when you're smiling. _ __   
  
But he refrained. He figured there wasn't much of a future if he started something with this nurse—there was probably some law against that anyway, though Pete had never let the law stop him.   
  
She had just left, her flat-cladded feet whisking her away briskly, and it almost seemed like she was eager to leave.   
  
Pete heaved heavily, concentrating on what the hell he was doing here.   
  
There were only faint, vague traces of anything but the hospital. He remembered a car—red, he thought—and that was all.   
  
The next thing he knew, doctors surrounded him urgently, a bunch of unfamiliar faces asking him familiar questions.   
  
"Peter—"   
  
"Pete."   
  
The doctor nodded.

“Pete,” he repeated, offering a warm smile. “I’m Dr. Harrison. Head of the psychiatrist unit,” he paused as if he expected Pete to say something, like maybe ask what  _ exactly  _ a psychiatrist was doing here.

After a brief period of muteness, the doctor started, “Do you know why you’re here?”

Pete shook his head slowly.

“I certainly wouldn’t be here for recreation,” the boy remarked sarcastically.

He had to admit, the statement was quite rude. Especially to one who claimed to be saving his life—at least he assumed, because that was what doctors did, right?

_ I really am a royal pain in the ass aren’t I,  _ he thought, training his attention on Mr. Harrison.

An audible sigh left his mouth, a sign of exasperation visible in only him out of the fifteen-or-so occupants.

“You really don’t remember anything?” He further inquired, to which Pete had answered no.

That was when it hit him, Pete believed.

That was the moment he realized that he really  _ didn’t  _ remember anything, that he was barely on first-name-basis with himself.

He then broke down crying before the doctor could say anything else, cutting everyone off with a few tears and some additional sniffles here and there. It was embarrassing, sobbing like that in front of the unit of workers.

It was sudden—before he could think much of it, there were salty waterfalls seeping from his tear ducts, and he had much indeed wanted to compose himself, but that was quite impossible in that situation.

“You’re twenty-two now, Pete,” Joe had greeted happily.

Presently, the hospital was the earliest thing he could remember. The rest of his life was gone. What was left was just a blur.

Pete only held a perplexed expression to the answer, the remark so sudden to the extent that the teenager hadn’t hinted any desire for the subject, yet Joe had presented him with so.

He was definitely one of the only members of the band that came with psychological ease, confronting Pete with a cool, sympathetic approach that could’ve been mistaken for empathy. His iridescently aqua eyes had somewhat contradicted his trait of warmth—but all in all, that was the only deceitful piece of Joe’s existence. Otherwise, his physicality aligned with his personality just nicely.

To prove the instance, his averagely tall figure (at least relative to Pete, who was at an ego-demeaning height of 5”6 feet) had an organic bundle of curly brown hair, trimmed to fit the likes of a longish-buzz cut, a red streak fitting to correspond Pete’s own follicles. He was only about three years older than Pete, crowning him with the age of twenty-four—or was it twenty-five, with his newly branded lifespan?—marked more or less with a hint of stubble seasoning his cheeks and chin.

As of now, his hair was gelled in the manner of an admittedly subtle version of Elvis Presley, a smile tied into his lisp inducing teeth.

“Happy birthday!” He greeted once more, in which Pete had noticed a small box of the sorts, wrapped in some kind of metallic coat.

“Thank you,” Pete expressed, an evident disinterest for the occasion leaving his tongue as he quickly piped, “What's in the box?”

Dismissing the lack of mannerism, Joe indulged in handing the small gift to Pete.

The latter tore it open in a method of fast works, revealing a dagger, encased in a carved protector.

Before he could express his thanks, Joe started almost anxiously.

“Sorry it's not much—we don’t have much of a budget. But chief thought it was about time you had one…”—He carried on as Pete observed his hands digging through his pockets—”It’s kinda tense out there, if you know what I mean.”

At that, the boy smiled, taking note of the apology lightly.

“Thank you. It's great—pretty, too,” he answered, sliding the face of the blade about his palm.

Joe only nodded, about to leave the room before halting, flashing a quick question.

“You still working today?”

Pete nodded.

“Yeah, I guess. I’m already in some shit with the boss, but I could probably work in a shorter shift—have a complementary drink after, perhaps—I’ll let you know,” he winked, grinning.

Joe expressed his understanding with a curt shake of the head, tacking on a, “Got ya,” afterwards before dematerializing.

The character’s boyish curve of the face had dissipated just as Joe had, his mind buzzing with abnormal ideas, wisps of question marks teasing his brain as he instead observed the blade, leaving his mentality in unrest.

The case was lined with a carved constellation, the rounded indents varying in size. It took the expression of a precise, noble hand, lines embedded into intricate swirls as it danced about the dark wood, a small, ‘ _ Gemini’  _ following in its tracks.

After a moment of examination, the boy slipped the dagger into his back pocket, sliding on a wool jacket to aid his journey back from work. The tyrannical task had called for a press of late exit hours, which Pete didn’t mind, in all honesty. He had nothing to come home to, besides sleep and survival, but either than that, his life was run on an infinite tightrope, an idle caution only to be ended with inevitable death.

He stopped himself from advancing the ideas, closing his eyes.

“Bad thoughts, Pete,” he mumbled tightly to himself, approaching the threshold of the apartment.

“Bad thoughts.”

And with that, he escaped, into the pretext of a dull birthday. If only he knew the fate that awaited his company.


	3. Of All The Gin Joints In All The World

 It goes by the alibi of the local cigarette shop, as an identity like that follows suit with one of a bar, minus the fact that owning liquor was illegal, which _definitely_ outlawed venues that advertised such.

 Much like a cigarette shop, this service is quite popular among troublemakers or despaired addicts, and that’s why the gang had infiltrated this dark boundary of the city. It’s outlandish compared to the gin joints in central, mostly because it isn’t too discreet, and it’s fairly small than expected. But it’s contents exceed the criteria of an appalling saloon, as the moonshiners assigned to the place take their time, and run very efficiently, especially with the high consumer demand.

 The witch’s hour never seemed scarce of patrons despite the fragmentary of the clock. It seemed that if one were ever to settle in a metropolitan parallel to the dark and depraved Chicago, they’d find themselves in an insomnia-graced situation, as Chicagoans are exotic for the treat (owe the lack of reputation to Seattle’s residents, curse them). This instance was proved by the factor of the bar’s capacity, which was filled to the brim at the time.

 With this thought within the Youngbloods’ fingertips, they had reserved a third of the venue to themselves--a rather _generous_ venue space, as there were only a warm-body-count of seven members. This statistic was quite the astonishment in simplest terms, as most successful organizations (if you could call a team of testing delinquents that) ranged through the teens, excluding allies.

 “You seem to be stalling, Patrick,” Awsten pried, a smile bubbling between his liquor induced lips. “Two scotches,” He cued roughly, spilling a light tap of the palm on Patrick’s shoulder, leaning over a vacant seat.

 Patrick only nodded, mind clogged minorly in result of a two-shot round.

 “Thank you, Awsten Knight, to which I owe a tipping benignity of the sort, if I recall your rather... _rapacious_ qualities.”

 Patrick tipped his head back as he downed the liquid instantaneously, lips pursed in the denouement of a bitter bid. Awsten only laughed in rambunctious reply, a slight deduction of the phrase on the tip of his brain before hurling back an, “English only, Stump.”

 The boy reeled back a discharge of winding exasperation, instead translating a three-sixty of the eye before answering curtly.

 “Do I owe you anything?”

 Awsten frowned at the statement, his sober expression assumed into offense behind the blur of intoxication. He pushed his icy hair back, a surge of nostalgia recurring within the caramel-headed boy, his thoughts responding with a train of observations, such as how the azure seemed equivalent to the color of the toothpaste he had consumed this morning, or how the style had buzzed a stunning similarity to one of the settlers of Patrick’s fight.

 Dismissing the idle swarm of brain production, Patrick confided in the present as Awsten cracked a winning grin, winking.

 “You don’t really _depict_ me as so--hey! Did you hear that? I used one of those gigantic words you always use. Ha! Another one!” The younger boy teased, dashing off to what Patrick could only assume as a more entertaining matter.

 Isolation consumed the enigmatic character, his clear, swimming eyes narrowed with what could only be a searching quality as his lashes flirted with an air of scrutiny. Within his peripheral vision were nothing of interest—a minor disappointment, yet a disappointment at its matter’s core.

 Patrick instead directed his occupation to the people swarming about him, and though no beings had compromised his presence, it seemed as if all thoughts were pointed at none other than the Youngblood member—particularly the individual within the profile of a vertically-challenged, oak wood haired boy, who seemed to have his feet on either side of the minor fence. It was unclear to the others if he had actually met the criteria of the bar, what with his rather _young_ complexion and willing disability to achieve tipsy.

 But then again, was _anyone_ here following any rules?

 It nerved him, the way the clans about him moved, as if he was some ghost, hidden behind this invisible barrier only existent to _his_ eyes, only comprehended by _his_ brain.

 Patrick felt as if he was left out of some nationally acknowledged joke, and the universe chose to cast him out as the black sheep. What could he have possibly done that resulted in this?

  _There’s lots of injustice by the name of you,_ the boy claimed subliminally. _You just choose to pride them, don’t you?_

 “I do,” Patrick muttered, his vision shifting about for unintended ears.

 He shook his head, gazing up as he called aloud for another round.

 At the notion, a worker who proclaimed the attire of a crimson-cradled skull reciprocated to the bidding, biting his lip as he flipped a damp, browned-out rag.

 It was a rather obscure style of Chicago, the boy's head webbed with a silky reading of rebellious, who Patrick could categorize too as the character who equaled the synonym of angst.

 He tossed a hand through his red sparked hair, a raven ink partially engulfed about the mess as the boy offered a polite, “What can I get you, sir?”

 Patrick's stormy blues crossed to the rather short, lanky framed boy who had previously been greasing the tables with the wet rag.

Admittedly, Patrick _did_ let his observations skewer over the figure for more than usual when deducing, because there was something that had racked his hippocampus, something that urged his body to go say something.

 While investigating, he noted the tenseness evident in this new comer’s juvenile eyes, as if Patrick was scaring him in some way.

 Patrick didn’t quite get _how_ he could look so intimidating--behind the mask was different, but with his naked, unmarred expression, there was nothing daunting about him.

 He frowned.

 “I read you as disheartened--is it owed to me? I apologize for my blunt observations.”

 The latter had approached the question with a steal of confusion, replying with a half-dazed, “Wha--excuse me?”

 Patrick rolled his eyes, clarifying.

 “Are you _afraid_? If so, I give my deep regards.”

 The boy only shook his head, a point of refusal to the question, “Not really, sir. I--I’m not used to… um,” he paused, meeting eye-level with the client, before proceeding slowly, “Socializing.”

 He aided the word with a yellow “caution” sign adorning its syllables, blinking quickly as he relented, “What was the order, sir?”

 Patrick didn’t answer.

 Instead, he gazed at the boy in silence, a growing tension budding as the figure fidgeted in his stance, a slight wobble to his body.

 "What’s your name?” Patrick chimed, his subconscious plea for alcohol draining, as did the tension at the break of muteness.

 “Pete Wentz.”

 “Pete Wentz,” Patrick mused, trying the name as if to see if it suited the boy. He grinned politely, rigging the answer with his own identity. “Patrick Stump, to offer as a balance of conversation.”

 Pete nodded, a slight, “kiss of the rose” blush tinting his tan cheeks. “Patrick. It’s nice to meet you.”

 He offered a hand, to which Patrick took graciously, gripping the boy’s limb in a rather _passionate_ grace, shaking it with such a force Pete had underestimated from the skinny framed man.

 “Pete Wentz, I must add how ironic your features seem to your occupation. How old are you, if you don’t mind me inquiring?” Patrick slumped forward, ears trained on the millennial's semi-husky voice.

 “Ah, I turn twenty-two today.” Pete hinted, which had earned a quirk of the brow from the conversation’s other counterpart.

 “Is that so? From what I see presently, you are tasked with such a _callous_ job--why is that? On this occasion?” The boy advanced, leaning forward in increasing intimacy.

 Pete couldn’t help but chuckle at the stranger’s choice of words, with his kind of formal vocabulary he never knew someone would use in a reality’s sense.

 The seeded laugh only birthed a perplexed complexion in the handsome patron, eyes squinted severely as he questioned.

 “Humor stems from elements of either another’s foolishness--or in some cases, anxiety. Was it something of me?”

 Patrick’s words were tinted in slight accusation, layered with a tight nerve that dimmed the lightness of Pete’s laughter subtly.

 “No, no. You’re just… cool. You don’t meet lots of people like that,” Pete assured, punctuating the line with a kind, eye-crinkled grin.

 The older boy nodded, sighing audibly in relief. His lips curved upward, a fault the man would’ve secured if not for the slight influence of beer on his tongue.

 “Thank you.”

 At that, the conversation fell yet again, crumbling to ashes as Pete took the note to leave, until he heard, “Can I present you with a drink?”

 Pete only stood, stunned as a raging blush evolved on his face, a sheepish beam enticing his teeth.

 Finally, he turned, only to meet the other standing now, placed with his body against the counter, arms supporting his head as his legs stood, feet planted to the floor.

 He noticed Patrick’s pinkish features, lips parted slightly in anticipation, a punishingly _adorable_ decoration to his malicious demeanor. His eyes were widened in the manner of a small child attempting a dubious quest of, “could I have that?” Lashes framing his really _pretty_ teacup-blues. Pete figured he had one too many shots, but he looked sober enough to recognize his consequential actions.

 “I don’t know if I can do that,” he blurred frantically, a rapid advance on his nerves unwinding at the idea.

  _Was this really_ cute _guy flirting with me?_

 Pete hated his sensitive romances, how _early_ he’d let himself make such assumptions, when this character could just very-well be drunkishly congenial.

 “Of course you can,” Patrick responded, pressing a wad of twenties on the counter. “If odds are against us, you are granted the liberty to charge my consequences.”

 At that, Pete could swear he saw a twitch of the eye, a probable wink dissipating into history as he bit his lip, because _damn_ this Patrick guy was attractive, and he was willingly _interacting_ with this eye-sore of a being.

 “Due to your evident wariness,”--Patrick intruded, committing burglary of Pete’s oncoming surge of thoughtless conversation fillers, which he was sort of glad for, since he had no idea how to decline the intoxicating invitation--“I’ll spare you the trouble. Say tomorrow evening, around the twenty-secondth hour? I can rule your expenses by paying for dinner.”

 At this, he proceeded to lock his eyes on the taller stance of masculinity, an evident show of understanding in his complexion that it might as well have been said out loud.

 Pete thought graciously of the subject, figuring his answer to Patrick’s wordless, “it's okay if you can’t make it” would refuse that factor.

 But he had to clarify.

 “Patrick,” Pete started, head bobbing for any other stalking characters. “Are you asking me out? Like, on a date?”

 With no hesitation, the boy replied coolly, “So it seems.”

 Now that his intentions were confirmed, Pete gulped down a bashful gesture, remaining in line with his confident traits.

 “I’d love to,” he responded, a slight regret to the word “love” as Patrick beamed, an air of radiant bliss overtaking him.

 “My gratitude to your acceptance is immense!” He exclaimed, an outburst that had earned a couple glances toward the duo.

 Patrick recovered briskly, offering the details in a flurry.

 “I’ll wait for you here around ten, to which we’ll depart off to this grand diner I know to be destined about twenty minutes, walking pace. Though I’ll work up a vehicle of the sort—ah, for your sake.”

 At that, Patrick smacked his hands in the manner of a clap, further proof to the ecstatic state Pete had hypothesized him to be.

 The reaction left Pete with little will to stifle a sheepish smile, a toothy string of expression clear on his young features. After about two identifiable years of life, Patrick Stump had given some significance to his near-future--specifically, tomorrow’s chime of ten o’ clock. But what would Pete tend to post-ritually? Would Patrick become a blurred out face among his many dead-ended hook-ups? Would he turn for the worse and take a sharp course to trouble with this new guy?

 Pete gazed at Patrick in thought, taking in his magnificent features--his prominent cheekbones, his fluffy auburn hair, glazed with the touch of nature, as most occupants styled their hair quite comically, enhancing the curves and waves enough to make it look plastic. Pete considered Patrick as one of those rarities that chose to be candid, in both physicality and mental, despite the light speed time they’ve spent together.

 To put it simply, there was no way such negative connotations could be extracted from this figure. Though that was based on Pete Wentz’s judgement, note, _Pete Wentz_ , the boy who once jumped from the roof of a two-story building with an umbrella to test the physics of _Mary Poppins_. Of course, he had found the logic ill-tempered, and that was his very fear as of this moment--that Patrick was the Mary Poppins to his overactive imagination, and he’d manage to fuck up his life forever and never love again.

 “I believe your silence can be accounted as a dismissal.”

 Patrick had stood up straighter than before, yet he still ambled with a hazed clumsiness. “It was very pleasant to be acquainted with you, Pete Wentz. I just hope that your choice of field doesn’t earn you some juvenile detention. A rather somber note to leave on, but wariness is a key factor in keeping yourself in the right place with these types of things. Not to worry though--I’m sure you’ll be just fine. Until tomorrow’s twilight, Pete Wentz.”

 Wordlessly, the boy bounced off the premises, only to Pete’s dismay. The exit had been executed fairly abrupt, though Pete couldn’t blame him.

 Admittedly, Peter Kingston Lewis Wentz III was not one known for his charm, if acknowledged at all. No matter how hard he’d attempt to carry himself as some upper being, he wasn’t ignorant to the comments of how shallow he could be, or how tension inducing his presence could ooze. But even with that twisted comfort of understanding, it did a zeroed-value to cushion the absence of the handsome Patrick Stump, and he couldn’t help but belittle himself for it. That was Pete, always beating himself up in the end.

  _You’ll see him tomorrow. He seems like someone who keeps his promises,_ Pete tried to assure himself.

 He did his trial of wiping the thought from his memory, instead, training his ideas to the task at hand, now that his interest had faltered into the background, a remarkable stain in Pete’s consciousness.

 Pete’s hand absent-mindedly drifted to the knife that lay to his disposal, tucked neatly inside his back pocket as he sighed, letting his fingers drop to his sides as he glanced at the clock.

  _2:00 AM._

 That was way too long to bare the crushing pressure of self-secludedness, of doubt. How could Pete survive that constant drag of life? The anticipation for his burning out flame?

  _You’re nothing but a stubbed out match, smoke ceasing the air because you’re gone. That smoke’s temporary—it’ll only choke up the oxygen for a blink compared to the many striving stars out there_ , his head pierced.

 “Fuck off,” he muttered inaudibly, instead, attempting to calculate the resented hours that lay before his foretold nirvana.

  _The eye’s closing, Pete, and your smoke is now a thin streak of white._

  _Blink, and you’ll miss it._

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to clarify that in the gang kind of era, consumption of alcohol was illegal, hence the contents of the chapter! I wrote this and forgot to add that, so I kind of tacked it on a little. Hopefully it's not too bad, but I'll get into detail a little more within the story. Hope you enjoyed this extra long update :)


	4. Kill The Girls, To Get Paid

 Gerard was the pulsing red in the room.

 The result of Patrick’s photisms are justified, what with his sarcastic drooped smirk, his intellectual claims and overall dominating demeanor. Gerard Way screamed crimson, trailing his steps with the grace of a queen, taken a cold-hearted one. His mannerisms were well fitted under androgynous, executions suited best in masculinity,while his physical stride and gestures radiated bold femininity. With the Killjoy’s air of inherited authority, it wasn’t a surprise when Patrick learned of his business, which involved the massive empire of alcohol production. Using this personal knowledge, Patrick then inferred that the man was appointed on the reason of professional causes.

 Presently, two-thirds of the trio were seated (namely Gerard and Brendon), while Patrick stood, propped by the fireplace as the cooperators discussed passionately of matters that failed the interest of the other occupant. However, his ears were trained on their muffled conversation, as the beholder couldn’t quite suffice his curiosities.

 “I apologize for my hasty entrance,” Gerard spoke. It was quite evident that the words had been untruthful, though, offered for courtesy--which lacked thereof, for the matter--as his pronunciation of the sentence fermented a figure of bitterness. It was clear that something had upset the man, his tongue and body language one of the troubled.

 “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Brendon proceeded, taking note of Way’s aggravated state.

 At the break of silence, Patrick observed Gerard’s tapping of fingers, it’s cacophony echoing about the room before the newcomer requested frantically, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

 From Patrick’s view, he could observe the expressions carved into Brendon’s complexion, which held a downward arch, a facial translation to a shrug. “If it helps you, Gerard.”

_How ironic,_ Patrick thought, _such a deed could only result in imminent death. Humorous, how the addictive could serve as aid to some, and the end to that common audience._

 The examiner’s commentating was cut off by the action of Brendon presenting a cigarette from behind his maple desk, Gerard accepting the gift between his middle and pointer. His trembling hands stilled with the contact, and with precise grace, the boy struck a match briskly, as the perpetual aroma of nicotine ripped through the air in response.

 Instantly, Patrick could imagine his eye dilating in desire for the drug, inhaling the sickly sweet perfume of smoke as he chewed at the inside of his cheek, suppressing the consequential urge mentally.

 Instead, the boy directed his attention to the dozen or so paintings adorning Brendon’s walls, the one nearby the face of Frank Sinatra. The interior of the room was enlightened with a deep violet, riddled with gold accents as they crawled up to the ceiling. Intersecting the roof was a grand chandelier, an offer from a name expelled from Patrick’s memory now, high above the velvet cushions that sat adjacent from the hearth.

 Finally, after a spell of for granted silence, a voice exasperated, “Fucking hell.”

 Patrick turned to see Gerard exhale a long ribbon of smoke.

 “You seem irritated,” Brendon claimed.

 “It wasn’t obvious?”

 Ignoring the statement, Brendon folded his hands. “Why are you here, Way?”

 Gerard delayed the subject once again, tilting his head.

 Patrick had recognized Gerard’s attire as he came in, and imagined his inky locks falling over his shoulders, black rimmed irises kissed with a honey gaze, a palette of autumn hues. He fabricated the red inflamed epidermis around his lashes, stark against the guest’s pale cheeks. Additionally, he recalled the bandanna crossing his throat, accessorized with a polished, black leather jacket, an icon of a pill etched above an ‘x’ shape. The man’s jeans were tattered to the point of futility, as it served no purpose of banding warmth to his legs in such a state. Underneath were a pair of striped tights, visible through the scattered tears among the bottoms, an awfully odd pairing of fashion (in personal opinion of Patrick Stump, who held the judgement high enough to rule it a fact).

 Finally, Gerard jabbed a thumb in Patrick’s direction, turning to eye him briefly.

 “Does _he_ have to be here?”

 “Just as a witness, if you pull anything on me.”

 “A bodyguard.”

 “A helping hand to kick your ass, but sure,” Brendon shifted to compromise Patrick’s state, quickly dashing back to the issue at hand before adding, “A ‘bodyguard’, as you call it. But he won’t make a peep, as long as this resumes peacefully.”

 Gerard sighed skeptically, his visual lock on Patrick unwinding as he turned back to the interactive Youngblood member.

 “The call for a favor has ensued.”

 “What kind of favor?” Brendon pressed, brows slouching in interest.

 The latter grinned (Patrick ought he had--it was plausible to how his manager reacted), a wolfish tooth that protruded from the instance of question.

 “A _death_ wish, if you may.”

 At the remark, Brendon’s eyes enlarged in a manner more of surprise than fear.

 There was no question that Gerard’s company prospered on dirty ethics. Wealth in this day of age could only be in requite to corrupt moral, and in a case such as the visitor’s--murder.

 On top of the alcohol chain Gerard owned, his team was built of a vigilante of sorts--an organization formed of those who hurt and have _been_ hurt. They were occupied for desires of informal executions, assassins who were paid by merciless patrons.

 The Killjoys served as an unspoken embassy of the broken, while the Youngbloods stood as a public union of apprentices rebelling the system. Simplistically, the Killjoys (in respect to their label) were killers, and the Youngbloods, celebrities.

 As the two parties fell under the same branch of unconstitutional coveting, it was inevitable for their bonding, aiding one another like the French and the Colonists. However, the relationship called for an explosive one--commerce was not a beckon for friends, as they were always subconsciously competing.

 Patrick wondered who the death wish was accounted for.

 “You need a murder done, Gerard? Why can’t you just do that yourself?” Brendon interrogated, verbalizing one of Patrick’s many queries.

 “That, I can’t say.”

 A cloud of conversational tension broke upon them, until Gerard piped, “But there’s money for it.”

 “Price?”

 “$250,000.”

 “You willing to bargain?”

 “That’s final price.”

 Gerard leaned back in his chair, huffing a ring of smog from his lips. While doing so, Brendon contemplated the offer, equations buzzing through his head in the haze of the late hours, the sky outside burrowing a warm orange from a deep, cold blue.

 “Can you disclose the the motive of this offer?” Brendon forwarded.

 Gerard scoffed.

 “Not until you confirm the deal. But look--” The Killjoy sat upright, splaying his hands across the table, Patrick perceiving the cigarette ashes that fell from his fingers as he started, “--there’s $250,000 on the table if you get this job done. You either sit with two-hundred-fifty grand in your pocket and do whatever the hell you want with it, or you don’t, but still have that net worth of $750,000 with you. Mathematically, it’s a win-win situation for your princesses.”

 Finally, the boy intertwined his fingers, dismissing his hands from Patrick’s viewpoint.

 “Take it, Brendon,” Patrick intervened.

 “Oh! Pretty boy talks. And he talks good business,” Gerard exclaimed, clapping his hands as he swiveled in his chair, fixated on Patrick.

 There was a devilish grin on his face, as Patrick’s verbal adrenaline ran short from the outburst.

 Suddenly, he’s out of words, as Brendon regained the dialogue with hidden resentment toward Patrick’s speech.

 The boy shrunk in the split-second of glare Brendon shot, lips tuned to a grim line as Brendon started.

 “We’ll take the deal.”

 The ally’s eyes ignited between his dark, curly lashes, a flame of content flickering in his pupils.

 “You’ve heard of the Overcast Kids, haven’t you?” Gerard started, with a hint of seldom graveness.

 Brendon nodded. “The name’s floated around. A client of yours?”

 “An employee.”

 “I see.”

 Patrick’s attentiveness grew at the mention, entering the discussion.

 “They own a bar, don’t they? The boys and I went for a drink earlier-- _Folie A Deux,_ if I recall? An exquisite name fitted for it’s exquisite beverages _._ The ‘madness of many’, if I recall my limited French,” Patrick chimed. He thought of Pete Wentz, his amiable smile twinkling in his head before starting, “What could they have done?”

 “Is it really your business, Mister…” Gerard’s sentence trailed, searching lazily for the identity. It was obvious his intentions were to piss Patrick off.

 “Stump. Patrick Stump,” The boy provided reluctantly. “And I assume you’re Mr. Ass Hat Way?”

 “Patrick,” Brendon retorted in futile attempt to sound serious, a chuckle instead erupting from his grinning lips.

 Gerard scowled.

 “Your attempt to anger me is just a sign of your lack of professionalism. But fuck you too.”

 Instead of shunning the offender, as Patrick would have predicted, the man leaned back, proceeding.

 “The Overcast Kids have failed to pay their debts, and I’ve gotten word of some… _corruption_ regarding the usage of money. They haven’t given me my part of the earnings, and I have reason to believe they’re lurking somewhere they shouldn’t be. Your job is to find out who’s responsible, and not to be harsh, but--” Gerard closed his eyes while taking a drag, pausing before he glowered at Patrick, “-- _kill_ them. It’s simple.”

 At the closure of his proposal, Patrick and Brendon fell into quietude at such a morbid concept.

 “Need I remind you that you’ve accepted this job already, and there’s no take-backs,” Gerard prompted.

 “But why us?” Brendon quizzed.

 “True--why _us?_ Gerard, need I remind _you_ that almost none of us qualify for the job as much as your drones do--you have serial killers. We have entertainers. Suffice my curiosities, and answer this--why can’t the mastermind of a basic assassination group just execute it? You’re asking the freak show to _murder_ someone. We’re clowns, jokers--we can’t kill,” Patrick advanced.

 An exasperated breath was extracted from the Killjoy. “It’s not as easy as it seems.”

 “Why?”

 “Because they know us. We don’t know them.”

 “The _hell_?”

 “I’m growing impatient, boys,” Gerard informed, face cross. “The Overcast Kids have well maintained a discreet  identity, which makes finding whoever’s responsible for this reckless money suspension even harder. We know the members, however--a count of thirteen.”

 Patrick frowned at the statement. “And how do you suppose we eliminate the possibilities? With _thirteen_ unknown suspects?”

 “I never said the thirteen were unknown. We have a list--albeit a vague one. It only includes names and occupation, though I’m sure you can work with that.”

 Gerard stuck his hand in his jacket, extracting a manila-colored paper, numbered identities transcripted with messy but legible calligraphy. Patrick deduced that it had been written in short notice, spelled out in slanted formation, curves looping carelessly into the next character.

 Upon the note contained the following:

  1. _Joseph Mark Trohman; Moonshiner_
  2. _Andrew John Hurley; Moonshiner_
  3. _Spencer James Smith; Moonshiner_
  4. _Brian MacDonald; Rum Runner_
  5. _Alex Babinski; Rum Runner_
  6. _Joshua William Dun; Bartender_
  7. _Lyndsey Gunnulfsen; Bartender_
  8. _Tyler Robert Joseph; Assistant Manager_
  9. _Ashley Nicolette Frangipane; Bouncer_
  10. _Alexander David Turner; Bouncer/Manager_



_11.Jesse James Rutherford; Bouncer_

  1. _George Ryan Ross III; Bus Boy_
  2. _Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III; Bus Boy_



 Patrick’s eyes lingered on the thirteenth listed name, lips pursed in contemplation, before Brendon took the note into his possession.

 “Do we have a plan with all of this?” He issued, glancing at the report briefly before rolling it between his fingers.

 Gerard nodded.

 “A private investigator. An appointed spy. You find out what’s happening, and bring me their head. And feel free to analyze that rather _medieval_ statement as figurative or literal. I _do_ want whoever’s causing me this financial reputation dead. Guarantee that within the next thirty days, you get your money. Though if you fail to do so, we never had this conversation, and if I receive word of this request, then you shall receive word of your gruesome ends. Do I make myself clear?”

 The promise was scarily sincere, and out of intimidation, Patrick nodded, while Brendon’s agreement was motivated by true clarity. His face seemed scarce of fear, instead, rested with cool composure. “No need for that, Gerard. We’ll get it done, I assure you.”

 “I have confidence in so.”

 He stood, offering a hand of respect as he stuck the cigarette in the other.

 Brendon accepted, smiling.

 “Pleasure doing business with the both of you. Until next time, Mr. Urie, and farewell to you, Mr. Stump.”

 Patrick and Gerard shared a gesture of politeness, as Brendon lifted from his chair, placing the list on the counter.

 “Let me walk you out.”

 The pair exited the room, deserting Patrick to his own thoughts.

 He held the tree fibers between his fingers, eyes squinted in disagree.

 “Oh Peter,” Patrick muttered, placing the paper down.

 “What have you done?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah so yes, the plot unravels. Honestly, this is kinda gonna be a messy kind of story, with lots of sub plots to it (if I can work those out). But yeah! If you didn't know, Moonshiners were the people who made alcohol during the prohibition of recreational alcohol. And Rum Runners transported it. I still have to do a lil more research on that kind of stuff, but sorry for not updating! This came slower than I thought. Anyway, have a nice day, and I hope you enjoyed :)


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